Rampant Sinister Bunnies...

Why do people not turn their highlights on in the rain? Unless you drive a glow in the dark car, I fail to comprehend how you've arrived at the notion that being rear-ended is an additive to your cool factor.

How did Jamie Lee Curtis become an expert on what my personal digestive track requires? Did she get a PhD in Zaedah-health? If so, can she cure the odd dry spot on my left palm via commercial?

Who decided that I should receive Viagra e-mails EVERY SINGLE DAY? I may be confused, but I'm fairly sure my parents, friends and medical professionals can't all be wrong when labeling me a girl.

When did the record industry stop churning out the best little nonsense one-hit wonders? Remember Mexican Radio, Fishheads, Future's so bright (I gotta wear shades), One night in Bankok, Turning Japanese, Cars and the perennial favorite, Safety Dance, My meaningless quirk died out with the 80's?

I suppose I'll Wang Chung Tonight in a headlight glow while slurping Activa on a Viagra high.

A Word on Staples...

We, as an obnoxiously unaffected society, don't give nearly enough consideration to the little things that make Planet Earth such a smashing place to eat dead pigs and stuff. Man, can you tell I'm craving bacon?

Simple pleasures, folks. That's all I need (aside from George Clooney, a Ferrari and a private island on which to enjoy the preceding items.) But I'll settle for courteous staples.

Here's the thing... Being a regular gal with aforementioned simple needs (Do Ferraris come automatic), I believe I should be able to stumble into my place of employ and join several pages of nonsense (such as Medicare claims) together with no more effort than I put into my hair. Which is none.

Is this lofty goal unreasonable? Apparently, Staples believes it is. Why is it that I'm utilizing the very latest model of Staples stapler (exact model to your left), filled to bursting with Staples staples and...

JAM?

Why do I get three at once and each contorted in a different direction (which is rather like a staple orgy and nothing you should be contemplating)? And they admit it! Note the 'L' in the above Staples logo and you'll see how 32.7% of my stapling attempts look. Lopsided, like a deformed alien with half a brain and marbles in his shoes. Is it so difficult to get a matched pair of office apparatus and have smoothness rule my day?


To recap, I'm using Staples staples in a Staples stapler and it all goes pear-shaped. Maybe Milton had it right? SWINGLINE ALL THE WAY!

The curse is contagious...

There goes another dream, withering under the glaring sun of celebrity statistics. I shall never win an Oscar. Partially because I have not now nor shall I ever act in a public forum, save for sheer and utter innocence when I get pulled over. But mostly because it's become apparent that winning the naked gold dude is bad for one's relationships.

Exhibits 1 through umpteen: Halle Berry, Reese Witherspoon, Gwenyth Paltrow, Helen Hunt, Kate Winslet, Hilary Swank, Angelina Jolie and now... Sandra Bullock.

Maybe their men get jealous of how adoringly they're gripping that undressed hunk of precious metal? Maybe it's because Oscar, rather than using his arms to cover his nakedness like any sensible person, uses them to do a little chest-pounding? He's saying, 'now that she's got me, you can take a hike.'

I don't watch the Oscars as a general rule because they usually celebrate movies I have both never seen and frequently don't care about... (war dramas and romantic comedies take the fun out of living, folks). But next year, should I break my fast and observe ladies wearing my year's salary on their wrists, I shall pity the best actress winner as I would a kicked puppy.

Obviously, it's better for my love life (which I don't have) that I'll never receive such a coveted and manly object (for which I have no space). I am resigned to the notion that the closest to Oscar I'll ever get is this one:

Oh well... At least he's got his own place.

Oh, To Be Legal... *UPDATED*

This is my car...











And this is the money I will spend today on said shiny little blue guy...










The concept of car inspections is, to my feeble brain, akin to exploding subatomic particles. Or filling out tax forms. Or VCR manuals. And other equally difficult, mind-ripping experiments in human foibles. Who decided my happy, innocent vehicle needs gruff, unwashed hands wandering about his curves, seeking imperfections for which to charge me? Why does someone else have to put a stamp on my transport to declare it fit for duty?

Lil' Neon works just fine, thanks. When he's spitting up fumes and vomiting essential parts, I'll bring him in for service. Yes, I'm aware his check engine light is on. Has been for nearly a year and it hasn't stopped him from zooming down the freeway and shredding through yellow lights with the greatest of ease. Why must I pay an extra $92 for the privilege of knowing that the light is on for no particular reason?

It's a conspiracy. A ploy to take my hard-earned cash for which I slave at a desk for untold hours. See, here's me working terribly hard...


What more proof do you require that I shouldn't have to inspect my car? In protest of this intrusion, I waited two months beyond my expiration date to get my new set of stickers. Because when the state has a sticky hand in my pot, I like to make them work for it!
_________________________
Failed???

So I have to take Lil Neon back in a few days when they have the correct replacement parts for my fuel system leak. Plus two tires were deemed insufficient to handle road duties. Anything else, guys?

But with my luck...

It's a classic phrase in our family, as shared genes ensured we would all enjoy the delight of world-off-axis luck. It peppers the end of many sentences and if there's decent, unlaminated wood around, we're a group of hard-core knockers.

Example: For the last six years, I've wanted to rid the enclosed porch of the dinky mutant fridge we've been afraid to toss (because during the apocalypse, our household would be saved by having somewhere ancient to hide). Having come with the house, it's yellow (which is the first thing the manufacturers did wrong) and roughly the size of the common aardvark. Undersized lettuce feels cramped in this thing. We'd bought a shiny new energy star fridge, tall and gleaming white and the butternut munchkin was assigned eternal guard duty on the porch.

Yesterday, my seester and brother in law gave up a portion of their day to remove said unwanted monstrosity. YIPPEE!!! Bulk item trash day isn't for another week, so I figured (as delusional people do) that it could sit for a week out in the open for all to see what I've endured (avert your eyes!) and soon it would be gone.

But with my luck...

We got a wind storm today. YIPP-freaking-EE!!! A rip-snorter, as dad would say, that is sure to blow the yellow mutant over and into the street, thus (with my luck) landing on a passing motorcyclist who (with my luck) is an accident lawyer. Then I'll wind up (with my luck) living in the fridge prior to the coming apocalypse because (with my luck) it's too ugly to be kept in the evidence locker.

The Bombs of Doubt...

You know how you do something brave and inspired and all manner of nifty and then ATTACK!!!!!



Bombs of second thoughts drop from nasty little planes that follow you around all day, pelting your scalp with doubts, true of aim and entirely unpleasant. And then, the Mushroom Cloud of Regret...

Ohhh ahhh... pretty.

But maybe it's just me.

I've completed a very difficult task, one that anyone who's ever met me (which includes those who sadly have) would find unlikely. Namely, I stood up for myself (see dissertation on doormats several posts back to properly appreciate momentous occasion). Yes, gentle readers, I strapped on a bright and shiny pair and went about the reclaiming of something terribly precious to me.

Peace. And quite possibly sanity.

But as with all really great, awesome and otherwise fabulous victories, there's the aftertaste best described as Hmmm... Sure, I secured my peace. Okay, I've got my sanity (such as it is) but were my actions worthy of pride? Did I abide by my own needle-pointed rules of conduct? Did I, in the most general terms, act as a decent person?

I may have to wait until the bombs quit smacking into my head before I can formulate a sufficient answer to that. Until then, my peace has drawn me a bath and I shall go soak in sanity...